Familiar
by spazztic-author
Summary: In old Tevinter, there was magic that was as powerful as it was rare. Magisters would bind a slave to them to act as a magical focus, calling them a Familiar. It was long believed to be lost, but what if the skill was recovered by one crazy, lonely mage?
1. Prologue: Downward Spiral

"She's become unruly, Alistair." Eamon Guerrin, council to the newly crowned Alistair Theirin, stood well away from the king as he brooded on his throne. Any mention of the girl always put him on edge, especially these days. "You shouldn't keep her in the castle. She frightens your new bride."

Alistair scowled, still deep in thought. He'd known marrying so quickly would upset her, but he didn't think she would be so enraged. In the begining she'd actually been quite amicable to his new wife, and carried on her duties as his primary advisor. It was only when she'd accidentally discovered them sharing a private moment that she had suddenly become so violent and vicious.

But now... Now it was getting worse. She'd escaped more than once, fleeing for Orzammar to invoke the Rite of the Calling. He'd been forced to lock her away to keep her safe, and that had only fueled the mad creature that she seemed to have become.

Her latest attempt hadn't made it past the front gates, but once she realized she was trapped she began to hunt down Emily, the woman she held personally responsible for her current condition.

"Maybe we should contact the Aeonar-"

"I will not send the hero of Ferelden to prison!" Alistair snapped, his fists clenched. "I will not take anything more from her than I already have."

"Be reasonable, Alistair. The guards may have caught her this time, and perhaps they will catch her the next time and the next time, but what do you think will happen when they don't?" Alistair flinched, suddenly realizing the threat she posed. "She knocked several of the guards from their posts as she tried to find Emily. Two of them will need healing magic if they ever hope to walk again. She's become uncontrollable! You must do something before it's too late."

The king sighed, unable to meet Eamon's eyes. Maker, he was right. What would happen if she did get out again? What if she found Emily? "I... I need to speak with her."

Eamon sighed, a desperate and annoyed sound. "You have spoken to her times beyond counting. She will not be placated or calmed!"

Alistair rose and started toward the door hidden behind a tapestry near the throne. It had been made celebrating the end of the Blight, and it marked the secret passage up to the tower's highest room. "I'll be sure to take it under advisment."

It felt like he was making this slow climb several times a day, since she'd been locked away all those months ago. He knew it was cruel... But what other choice did he have? He had to protect her, even if it was from herself. In a way, he felt wholly responsible for her state. If they hadn't... If he hadn't told her all those things, if he'd just turned her away, she wouldn't be the raging woman she'd suddenly turned into.

Alistair reached the door almost without realizing it, so deep in thought he nearly walked into the door. Eamon had already positioned two Templars there, watching the door uneasily as the runes etched into the door and it's stone frame glowed and smoked faintly.

Maker's breath, she'd nearly burned another set? The king took a deep breath and knocked on the sealed door. "May I come in?"

There was a loud, low hiss as if something suddenly burst into flames while flying quickly through the air, before smashing with a loud crack into the already damaged door. The runes glowed white hot for a few seconds, before fading back to their original color. He opened the door slowly, peering in at the destruction before him.

The room had been neat and clean once, decorated with ancient elvhen works of art or books on their theology and culture. She'd taken to burning them, so he'd had everything removed except for the book she was reading at the time. The bed was equally disastrous, the sheets and matress torn apart as if a larger beast had taken offense to it. The walls were clawed and burned in some places, singed handprints marking where she'd searched for weakspots to just break the wall wide open.

And in the middle of the chaos sat a small elven woman, glaring at the man before her.

"Elle-"

"Morelle!" Her eyes were glinting like cut gems, the smokey haze of hate making them nearly glow of their own accord. She sat there glaring daggers at him like a coiled snake ready to strike.

"You cut your hair." Maybe idle conversation would quench a bit of the fire?

"The guard that snuck up on me wouldn't cut me lose." A hand reached up to touch the ragged ends of her uneven hair. It looked like she'd taken a dagger to it will all the grace of a blind butcher.

"Why did you break out in the first place? If you would simply behave, you would have so much. You would have sunlight and air again!"

She growled at him, reminding him of a feral cat that lived in the garbage pile. Morelle wouldn't meet his eyes and instead began playing with the cinders a her feet. "I want the death that is owed to me."

Alistair snorted, his forehead furrowed in an angry grimace. "Stop being so dramatic. You knew what would happen when I was made king."

"Perhaps, but I did not think I would live to see it. It was you who slept with the whore to produce a devilbaby, yet I am the one that feels condemned and ashamed for it! My life should have ended with the Blight!"

"You were disguising a selfish act with a selfless one and you know it! You had no intention of living beyond the Blight once you realized what you'd done."

"I was performing my duty. It was your selfishness that's forced me to... to this!"

It was an old and tired argument, one they'd had every day since her isolation from the world. Neither admitting fault and instead pinning it to the other.

"Do you want to go to the Aeonar! Is that it!" Alistair fought the urge to grab and shake her. If only she realized how much it hurt him to see her like this, a caged animal with no chance of freedom...

"Anything would be better than this, atleast then I wouldn't feel the pain or shame you've inflicted upon me." Her words were not so much shouted as snarled. She was spending too much time in animal form it seemed.

"Tranquility would kill you! I've spoken to the mages and Templars; you've been a harrowed Mage with too much contact with the fade for too long. I will not help you destroy yourself Morelle, and that's that!"

She turned on him, a sickly sweet smile plastered to her face. The elf looked eerie, her eyes seemingly hidden in shadow while her dark red cut-too-short hair framed a wicked face.

"Mark these words, Alistair Theirin. When you least expect it, I will force your hand. And the killing stroke will be by you!"

She was still cackling as he fled the room, the sound sending shivers up his spine. No, no matter what she did he would never hurt her...

But why did he feel so uneasy?

xXx

He should have listened to her, because Morelle Surana did not make idle threats.

It had been too easy, waiting for the Templars to grow complacent. This far from the chantry and tower, they fell out of practice where lyrium was free and the women freer. She watched them carefully, learning their routines and mannerisms. What made them relax? What made them nervous?

It was a game she played expertly.

She took the first step, building her own routine. Every early afternoon she seemed to go on the fiercest fit of her life, making as much noise and as many explosions as she could. The noise would gradually lessen, until she seemed to fade into unconsciousness. It took several days for the guards to grow comfortable enough to peer in at her after these episodes, but once they crossed that line she knew that the time had nearly come.

She waited until they grew comfortable enough to enter her room while she apparently slept. They needed to repair the runes that kept her magic in check, the same infernal seals that she'd been draining for days. The newer of them hesitated at the threshold, some invisible force alerting him to how unnatural the scene was.

He would be first.

They left the door slightly ajar, and once they were settled into their work she struck. Before the elder even realized she had moved, she was on his partner. She threw her body at his lower legs like a battering ram, riding him to the ground. She managed to crawl up to his torso, grasping his armored head with her hands and slamming it into the hardwood flooring with enough force to knock him unconcscious after the first blow.

With strange gentleness, she rested his head back on the floor as she turned to watch the elder. He was nearly pinned to the wall with surprise, stunned at the sudden explosion of activity.

Morelle remained crouched over her first target, just waiting. If she didn't time this right then it would have all been for naught.

The Templar abruptly jumped forward, trying to grab at her. The Mage ducked low, rolling to the right and scrambling up to dart out the open door before the Templar could lock her in.

Morelle stumbled on a bit of burned rug, giving just enough of a pause that the Templar caught up to her and grabbed her around the waist as she struggled to her feet. She tried kicking off and out with her feet and legs or trying to wiggle out of his grip, but he wouldn't let her escape easily.

Her struggling weakened, losing all of the vigor she'd been fighting with when he first grabbed her. She stopped moving completely, shaking slightly each time she drew a tiny breath. Maybe that initial burst was all she had?

Fool me once, shame on you...

Morelle kicked out with all the force she could muster, her random whirlwind of struggling kicks suddenly becoming more focused, more desperate. While generally ineffective, they surprised the Templar into loosening his grip just enough to let her wiggle away. The Mage scrambled to her feet and managed to dash out the door, slamming it behind her and sealing it shut from the outside with a short burst of ice.

That had not gone as smoothy as she would have hoped. Morelle had ended up expelling more than half of her mana just escaping that evil cell Alistair dared to call her room, and she was not even a third done.

With a deep breath, she began the slow descent into the tower.

A slow descent into hell.

xXx

Alistair felt an uneasy knot boil in his stomach as he returned to Denerim following a brief tour of the surrounding towns. He'd sent for messangers daily to check up on Morelle, the threat she'd hissed at him not as easily squelched as the ones before it, but they reported aside from a few outbursts she was actually behaving herself.

Still. Maybe he should move her to her own hide-away in the forest, where she could come to terms with the events leading up to this point of their lives. Or maybe she just needed time away from the one hurting her.

Maker, was he doing what was right?

He and his entourage hadn't even passed the gates when a guard came skidding up to him, breathless and panting. He had the worn and disheveled look of a witless man thrown into crisis.

"M-my lord!" The guard was nearly shouting, trying not to stumble as he stopped just short of the king. It was hard to hear or understand anything as his chest heaved, but he managed to choke the words out anyway. "The Mage... The Mage is gone!"

"What do you mean, gone? She escaped? What happened to the Templars posted at her door?" Oh Morelle, why did you have to pick now to act out!

"They didn't report back so a small unit was sent to check on them. She tricked them into entering and trapped them within." The guard calmed somewhat, taking comfort in the next bit of information. "But her phylactery indicates she's still on castle-"

A shriek pierced the afternoon sky, followed by a blood-ragged roar and the violent crash of breaking glass. Oh maker no, she was in the library!

The wrathful elfwitch had discovered his wife.

xXx

No wonder cats played with their food. This was simply too much fun!

With a splintering crack of a broken door, she'd found the wretch responsible for everything. For the blight, for the politics, for Alistair's imagined unfaithfulness, and she would be made to pay dearly for it all. There would be a death today, and Morelle felt confident it would not be her's.

Not yet.

The woman was kneeling behind a bookstand, cowering before the diminutive elf that had just ripped a solid oak door from it's hinges and frame. Her messy red hair made it seem as if a halo of flame were licking at the sides of her face, a demon of rage in corporeal form.

Morelle didn't say anything to the human woman as she slowly approached. She didn't need to. They both knew exactly what she was here for, yet Emily remained cowering behind the bookstand. Her fear was a more potent paralysis than even Morelle's magic could manage.

The elf stepped closer, kneeling down with a sick smirk on her face as she rested a hand on Emily's cheek. If the woman wasn't such a sadistic monster, Emily would have almost called it a comforting gesture. But there was the monster, giggling as Morelle raked her shapeshifted hand down Emily's cheek. The claws were still malformed, leaving only angry red welts instead of drawing blood. The woman stumbled back, crawling away and staggering to her feet as quickly as she could. Morelle was still laughing, her eyes alight as she thought of Emily's noble blood spilling to the pretty carpets of the library.

Her features began shifting, her bones suddenly turning to water and fluidly moving from one place to another before she erupted into a cloud of smoke. Instead of a dagger-eyed Mage grinning at her, a blood-tinged russet panther stared at her with wicked fangs curved down from her snarling maw.

Oh yes, cats had all the fun.

It was effortless, pouncing just ahead or behind the woman. Sometimes she would climb and leap to the top of the standing bookcases, watching as Emily spun and whirled to relocate the cat stalking her. Once she chased her to a table, moving in too rapidly and getting struck with a sizeable glass vase for her trouble. Emily screamed, but Morelle's antagonized roar drowned it out easily.

Nothing would save this woman.

Emily backed into a corner, trying to fend Morelle off with a small shard of the vase she had used earlier. Even if she stuck Morelle with it, the shifted Mage would laugh in her face. Far greater vermin than she had tried and failed to kill her.

Morelle prowled closer, her shoulders low and tense with the readiness to spring. She felt a growl build low in her throat before rumbling out of her chest. This was the moment, the finale she'd been pining for for endless lifetimes. Her claws unsheathed themselves, black blades hidden by dark red fur as she flexed.

"MORELLE NO!"

The feline Mage didn't even have time to look at the man that bellowed the command before she was tackled and pinned to the ground. Unable to squirm away, Morelle managed to turn her upper body and grab her captor in a vicious embrace with one claw digging into his shoulder while the other hooked around into his ribs.

Despite the claws in his shoulder and back, the man refused to let go and continued to try and pin her down while others foolishly tried to pry her claws out. She blindly bit for his neck but instead only managed to sink her fangs into the flesh around his collar bone. An armored knee got her hard in the kidney, and with a loud squeal she managed to slip away.

It was her turn to be cornered, head and tail low with her ears pinned back. The blood around her muzzle was a deeper tone than her coat, darkening her fur as it dripped down her jaws and neck to join the smears her paws had made as she scrambled away.

Two guards kept her pinned against the wall while the rest huddled around their injured companion. All she could hear over the throbbing pulse pounding in her ears were muffled voices, the smell of fresh blood overpowering anything else. She licked the blood from her muzzle and snarled tauntingly, making a shallow lunge forward. Instead of the guards falling back however, they met her charge with their shields.

The strike was not meant to deflect, as she had anticipated. Rather, when the first sank back to absorb her impact, the other came down hard on her skull.

The last thing she saw was Alistair, kneeling in a pool of his own blood as it flowed from his mangled shoulder. He had the ugliest look of sorrow on his face...

... How unbefitting a king.

xXx

Morelle was unpleasantly surprised that she'd survived. Moreso that she was in a different cell, and in a true dungeon at that. Her scalp felt itchy, the dried blood flaking as she scratched impotently at it. When had she gotten such a severe head wound?

She felt weak, unusually hungry. This was a different kind of hunger, though. She felt no empty pangs, rather her nerves both burned and seemed numbed over in a confusing sensation. She'd only experienced it once or twice when she was still very small and living with her clan before the Templars discovered them... Before the elder realized she was blessed by magic.

So he was going to starve her out of magic? It felt he was already half there, but it would still be a long while before she was weakened to his liking. Regardless, she felt too tired to do anything now, and laid back for sleep to claim her.

xXx

Morelle was unsure how long she was out before she was roughly awakened by someone sitting over her legs. With a start she realized that another person was at her back, using one large arm around her torso to pin her arms to her sides while his free hand was holding a foul smelling flask to her face.

Reacting on instinct rather than common sense, she tried to kick out and struggle. When the person behind her lost his grip on the flask and nearly dropped it, she tried to chant a spell before it was viciously slammed into her face and teeth. Before she could seal her lips, the person was already tilting the flask forward and forcing the fluid down her throat.

It burned wherever it touched flesh, and Morelle coughed and sputtered as she tried to stop choking. The more she fought, the more the one behind her tried to make her drink faster than was physically possible.

"Stop forcing her so fast; she'll choke before it's even half in her." The soft voice came from the one pinning her legs.

"You saw her. She was trying a chant."

"I hardly think she'll get a chant out before coughing to death. Let me do it." The voice managed to pry the flask from the other's hand as he settled his full weight over her thighs and hips. He used his free hand to firmly grasp her chin while Morelle slowly caught her breath.

"The king wants you to drink this potion; it's not poison, just a temporary magic negation. If you behave and drink it quietly, you'll be cleaned up before your audience. But if you fight me, I'll just give it back to Brok and you can see the king as filthy as a sewer rat."

The dark spots cleared from her vision, and for the first time she realized it was a Templar pinning her legs down, and the man at her back was probably another one aswell. These were no complacent dogs too long off the leash; they had the discipline and sheer authority that only came from years of working closely with mages either in the Tower or Aeonar.

She stared at the shielded face, the eyes difficult to make out even through the slits of the visor. It wasn't a hard or bitter glare, nor was it one of contempt or fear. Morelle simply watched him with curiousity shining in her eyes. Why was he being so kind after his companion was so brutal in her treatment? Even now, he was being so civil... He had to have known that she had viciously attacked the queen.

"Well?"

She could read nothing in his eyes, so the Mage decided it would just be best to comply. Morelle nodded her head once, accepting the potion as he slowly tilted the flask forward. The Templar was surprisingly careful, pulling back when she began to struggle and waiting patiently for her to resume.

It was bitter and pungent, settling sourly in her stomach as acid would she imagined. Once she'd drank it all with a small mouthful of water to wash the taste from her mouth, the Templar pulled her up by the arm. Under normal circumstances, she would have resented such manhandling. But now that the potion was begining to take effect, she needed the assistance.

Morelle had long since forgotten what weakness felt like, ever since she'd liberated the soul of an Arcane Mage in the forest ruins. She'd learned from the spirit how to channel her immense magic into her physical strength, and in the long years since the percentage of physical versus magical had widened until her physical strength was nonexistant, relying totally on magic to carry her.

It had been difficult at first, but after so long it had become second nature. As her magic grew, so did her seemingly preternatural strength. It was not her physicality that ripped the door from the hinges as she hunted Emily, but her monstrous magic.

Yet now her magic had left her, and she was left without even the strength to stand.

With the nameless Templar holding up one side and Brok the other, she managed to stumble out of the dungeon and into the upper levels of the palace. True to his word, Warden (as she had taken to calling him) had seen to it that she had a bath. He stood guard in the washroom as the maids thouroughly bathed her, not out of some perversion but to make sure she maintained her side of their "bargain". Morelle suspected that if she even hinted to act out, he'd drag her to the king clad only in bubbles. Not that she could even cause trouble if she wanted: she was so weak it was a wonder she could even sit up under the bruising clothswipes of the maids.

The Mage was dressed in robes even an apprentice would call plain while a barber was called to fix her shredded hair. By the end of it, Morelle's hair was styled into a similar cut she wore as an apprentice: a tapered bob that didn't even reach her chin, the hair nearly lying flat to her skull and leaving her ears exposed.

Warden pulled her up again, this time leading her to a room she knew too well.

The throne room.

The guards eyed her warily, but opened the grand door leading into the audience chamber. There should have been commoners and nobles clamoring to get in, advisors scurrying past... Yet it was dead silent. Warden pulled her further in, stopping just over a dozen feet from the throne. Not even the King's personal guard was here. Just a stern, stonefaced Alistair sitting topless on the throne.

He was bandaged around his ribs, but his shoulder was a shredded mess. Half-scarred in places from overzealous healing magic, the wound looked as if it was on the verge of festering. Long claw marks wrapped around his shoulder at the joint, thin ragged lines that still seeped blood now an again. The place over his collar bone was just mangled, punctures and torn flesh sewn shut to speed the healing process. Alistair would be forever marked, stiffly scarred from this brutal mauling.

The Templars knelt, bringing Morelle down with them, but when they rose they left her on all fours buckling under her own minor weight. She struggled to stand up, but all she managed was a half-hearted kneel before she collapsed completely.

"Get up, Morelle." The tone couldn't have been more frigid than if she'd cast Winter's Grasp on the words. The Mage looked up at Alistair on the throne. There was nothing but cold numbness and disgusted indifference in his hard eyes, his mouth a firm and bitter frown. She struggled until she was sitting, trying to hold her weight on her arms. It was the best she could do with her sapped strength.

"What... What attacked you?" Morelle murmured between pants while her head hung down. How could just talking be such a strain?

"A greater mountain panther wandered in and took offense to my clothes." His voice was unpleasantly sarcastic, cutting at her. "Who do you think attacked me, Mage? Look at me when I speak to you!"

Morelle flinched hard enough that her arms nearly buckled. Oh gods, /she'd/ done that? She really was out of control if she turned on Alistair, of all people. Morelle had always had a short temper and was easily enraged, but once she'd become a Warden, Alistair could always calm her in a way no one else could. That she would attack the one person who could soothe her wrath scared her more than a dozen archdemons could... Gods, there truly was something wrong with her.

Morelle forced her head up, doing her best to meet Alistair's pitiless eyes. Even in this, she could not help but be defiant. Her dark eyes smoldered and her mouth fell into a natural smirk. If Alistair noticed, he didn't react. The king only glared right back down at her from his throne's raised platform.

"Eamon and Emily-"

Morelle unconsciously hissed at the name. How she wished that that infernal woman would just not exist any more.

"Be silent. For once in your life, just listen!"

Alistair's stern snap pulled her back to reality. After all, hadn't her senseless rage brought her here in the first place? Morelle let her head hang down while Alistair continued as if she had never interrupted him in the first place.

"They demand that you be sent to the Aeonar. Morelle." He wouldn't continue until she looked up again. "But I cannot decide until I hear what you have to say. What is your theory? As I recall you were never removed from my Advisory."

"You know what I think."

"What you think, but not your advice. You have always been of fiery temperment but you never let your personal thoughts cloud your judgement. I am not making this appeal to Morelle the Mage, but to Advisor Surana." Alistair leaned forward, his expression far different. What was he doing, circling the issue but not confronting it directly? Attempting to appeal to the side of her that successfully led a combined army against the Blight?

No matter. She would play this game and see were it led.

"I am unstable... I cannot be trusted." It felt so strange to be talking about herself like this. Was Alistair forcing self-reflection? "The seals are a temporary measure at best. They create points of weakness that can be exploited. Particularly when they need to be reinstated. My proximity to the... to the queen is also an issue. Once escape is no longer likely, I attempt to..."

"To hunt down the Queen." Alistair supplied, watching the Mage as she awkwardly summarized her own behavior.

"Yes. Therefore, confinement within castle grounds is impossible."

"Not even if one of the cellars in the basement catacombs was converted into living quarters?"

"That would be cruel." Morelle shook her head. "Advisor Guerrin is right in demanding I be sent to the Aeonar. It is the only place I can be contained safely."

Alistair leaned back and sighed, rubbing the healing but sore areas in his shoulder to ease some of the tension out of the stiff muscles. Each pained grimace pulled Morelle deeper down into misery and shame.

"You haven't mentioned the Tower."

"Knight-Commander Greagoir would sooner cut off his arms than tolerate my presence. You forget I freed a Bloodmage, twice, and when confronted by him a third time I let him walk free. I'm little more than an Apostate myself to Greagoir and his Templars."

"And /you/ forget the tower has more autonomy than it did during your apprenticeship." Alistair was wearing a clever grin, one that Morelle didn't like one bit.

What was he up to...?

"Greagoir's word doesn't carry as much weight as it did before the Blight, and I've already spoken with Irving-"

"Impossible. Lake Calenhad is a half month's hard riding westward for a good courier. Three days for the horses to recover and another month's journey back. I can't have been in the pit more than a few days, maybe a week at most. Unless there's been some breakthrough with teleportation magic, you're lying."

"And if Irving was already here?" The smug grin was already widening.

"Why would Irving already be here?"

"I asked him here some months ago, when your behavior was going from erratic to violent." The king was suddenly serious. "I had hoped your old teacher could... /help/ you see what you were doing to the ones around you. What you were doing to yourself."

"I imagine this is the moment he's going to sweep in and show me the error of my ways?" Fantastic. An intervention on top of everything else.

"That was the original idea, until you set out to maul the Queen. Irving doesn't believe you can recover here, and he's agreed to take you back to the Tower. Atleast until you're no longer walking this self destructive path." Alistair almost looked... heartbroken, sitting there on the throne as he spoke of Morelle's near future. "I hope you see that I'm doing this for your own good."

Morelle was quiet for a long time, looking at everything but Alistair. He was doing this to /help/ her? Hadn't those been his words when she destroyed the archdemon but kept breathing? The very same words when he locked her in the tower's highest room?

Alistair really needed to stop helping. He was developing a talent for making everything worse.

"Where is Irving? I'd like a chance to speak to him myself." Morelle wasn't looking at Alistair, but he didn't press the issue. He only sighed, standing up.

"He left four days ago, to make the arrangements and to soften Greagoir to your homecoming."

"The Tower was never my home... But that is neither here nor there. When am I to follow him?" Even when he stood right before her, all she could was stare numbly at his feet. She had no fear of the Aeonar, or the Rite of the Calling.

But the Tower... She had suffered there as a child, dismissed as an elf and excluded because of her Dalish heritage. Memories of Jowan's escape still haunted her, nightmares of her friend ensnaring her in bloody bonds still attacked her as she slept.

Most of all, she could not forget how the tower had fallen... How she had been forced to cut down the people she'd known as children. Most of them had been transformed so monstrously, it was easy to make herself believe they were beyond redemption. But the few that still had their faces... It was like looking into the eyes of the innocent before they were viciously, remorselessly butchered.

"He asked for two weeks to prepare for you. Though if you relapse into your old ways, you will be sent sooner." The king knelt, trying to get the Mage to look at him, react to him. He could understand and handle the headstrong, violently tantruming Morelle... but he had never seen her so withdrawn, so /numb/. Not since the Blight ended and she realized what he'd done to save her.

Alistair reached for her shoulder, just minor contact to try and comfort her, but she flinched under his hand and recoiled from the touch.

"I miss you, Elle. I just want you to come back."

Morelle smiled, a sad but genuine smile. Her eyes weren't dark anymore, as they'd been for months, but they were still hollow with sadness. "I miss her too. But she's dead, and the dead can't come back."

Alistair gently forced her head up, matching her somber expression. "She's not dead, just buried."

"... Maybe."


	2. Chapter 1: Prodigal Daughter

The week before Morelle was to return to the tower, Alistair had moved her into a room directly below the one she had initially been confined to. It was not even a tenth as opulent as the first had been, housing only a bed and a window seat below the single window on the northeast side, but it didn't matter anyway.

Like everything else in her life, this was just temporary.

She would watch the sun when it rose in the mornings, sitting at the window for hours a day to just watch the sky and grounds below. Alistair would visit aswell, the frequency and duration of his visits increasing the closer it came to her departure. He even talked her into a game of chess once, the last hurrah before she would be out of his sight and reach.

Morelle suspected Warden was adding something to her food and water to keep her compliant; a mild concoction to keep her relaxed maybe. While this should have upset her, she was uneasily comfortable with it. It made her uncomfortable knowing that she wasn't even allowed to have her own emotions, but she accepted it without even minor resistance.

The days passed with her seemingly unmoved from her post at the window. The Mage was unsure when she would see nature again, locked away in the windowless Tower, and she was unwilling to miss a moment more than she had to.

A few days before she was to leave, she was fitted for and given an elaborate white robe. It was embroidered with complicated designs of delicate silver thread, solid pieces of silvery metal somehow attached at the neck and wrists like a collar and tight cuffs. A chain of the mysterious metal was wrapped around her waist and connected by a medallion larger than her head. Despite all of the metal, it was surprisingly light.

"What is this? It's not part of my collection." Morelle murmured quietly as Warden closed the collar around her neck. She heard it lock after he initially snapped it closed, the detailed carvings and runes hiding the seams and locks on every piece around her neck and wrists.

"If a Mage owned a set of such robes, it wouldn't be to wear." Warden checked the chain at her waist, making sure it was secure while still allowing her to breathe. "They're used when transporting Mages to the Aeonar. It is said Andraste wore a robe of similar design when she was taken to the stake. The Chantry uses them to bind the mages as the mages of Tevinter bound the Prophet." He checked the wrists again, gently tugging at the lock to see if it held. "The jewelry, even the embroidery, is made of a unique ore given to us by the dwarves. They call it Faedwyr, the empty's chain. It naturally supresses magic and what manages to get through it absorbs."

"I thought I was going to the Tower." Morelle tugged at the sleeves, disliking the tapered shoulders and billowing wrists. She'd never worn something so luxurious, and didn't care to again if it cost her her magic.

"You are. But we can't have you escaping can we? It was this or a cage, and you don't seem to be the type to tolerate being locked in a box."

"Being a muzzled wolf is hardly better."

"If the wolf didn't bite, she wouldn't need the muzzle."

xXx

It was just before dawn when Morelle heard the door open behind her. She hadn't moved from the window since Warden had dressed her, watching the carriage be packed and the horses hitched to the front harnesses. She expected Warden or even Alistair, but the figure that was at the door should not have been there.

"You should not be here." Even with whatever Warden had given her in her system, she could feel rage clawing it's way up and burning along her skin. It itched to shift back into the cat's lithe form of pure killing power, but the collar at her neck seemed to grow tight with each pulse of magic she tried to call forth.

Emily stood just within the door, a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her long, wavy black hair was unbraided and tousled with sleep. She was even still in her nightgown.

Most peculiar was the look on her face. It wasn't one of fear, but closer to the look a canary may have when it outwitted the clumsy cat.

"Does it presume to tell a Queen what she should do?" The smirk sickened Morelle, and she would have given her very voice to wipe that vile smile from Emily's face.

"If you value your life, I am. Only dead fools taunt the Dragon in her den." The Mage was so still, she could have been confused for a statue. Every muscle felt taut, inhuman instinct overwhelming her own senses as she readied herself for a cat-like leap.

"Oh, stop with that posturing!" Emily giggled at her sweetly, going as far as to delicatly cover her mouth with her fingers. "You don't scare me, Morelle. Though if you insist on trying, could you refrain from that silly growl? I wish to speak with you plainly, and I can't stop laughing when you make that /adorable/ sound."

"Would it be so adorable with my teeth in your neck?"

Emily walked fearlessly into the room, seating herself on Morelle's bed. For all her claims, the girl obviously wasn't stupid or brave enough to get within arms' reach.

"You had your chance, and as I'd planned, you let your thirst for blood and pain get the better of you." Emily huffed from the bed, her eyes sparkling. "Typical of a wild Mage. Though I hadn't anticipated the First Enchanter stepping in, I was rather hoping you'd be sent to the Aeonar."

Morelle stared at her for a moment, utterly speechless. Was this weakwilled noble brat trying to insinuate that /she/ had lured /Morelle/ into a trap?

"Come now. You honestly didn't think I was afraid of you, did you?" Emily asked, feigning shock. "Please, I could have had you killed with a /thought/. The truth is, Morelle, I couldn't establish myself with you here. Even now, all the King can think of is your petty problems when he should be focusing on raising my family to the status of Arls, and even Teyrns in time."

"Your marriage was for /political gain/?"

"Of course! You think I married Alistair for love? Silly girl, that's nothing but fairy tales and dream spinning!"

"But... But then /why/?" Morelle couldn't even begin to wrap her head around such an idea. Alistair had abandoned her for that! A power hungry harlot that had a black, withered husk where her heart should be?

"Because status is everything in this world, dear." She smiled at Morelle, too beautiful to be real. "You wouldn't know what I mean; as an elven Mage you have /none/." She suddenly clapped her hands together and gasped as if she suddenly had a delightful thought. "But I know how we can get you some! Markus, Benjamin?"

Two human men that had been standing out of view suddenly entered he room, crowding the tiny tower room that was never meant to hold so many people comfortably. She recognized the men in passing; they'd attended the wedding. They all had common features though... a similar curve to the nose, eyes of the same shape, even black hair.

Siblings. She'd been too distressed at the wedding to even notice it.

Benjamin had all the physical makings of a great soldier with twice the intellect. She could see that knowing spark in his eyes that many grunts lacked, though he was too muscled for Morelle's taste.

Markus was sleighter than his presumably older sibling. His hands were smaller, more delicate, and he was of average build. He'd never seen a day of physical labor in his life, he was more of a supervisor and administrator.

"Benjamin, please hold our friend. As much as she'll love the results, I don't think she'll care much for the process."

The larger brother advanced on Morelle as she glared at him. There wasn't any room to maneuver, and her magic was sealed away by this infernal metal, so the Mage simply sat and waited for him to get her. He must have been expecting her to run, because when he was within range he just snatched her arm and yanked her up from the seat.

That, or he just took pleasure in seeing elves wince.

He was holding her wrists pinned to her chest with one hand, using his arm to keep her still as she squirmed to escape. Carefully avoiding her gnashing teeth, he used his free hand to both force her mouth shut and turned her face away from Markus.

Markus with a short, sharp blade. Markus, who was slowly approaching with a terrible sneer on his face.

"I am giving you a going-away gift, Morelle!" Emily said from her place, seated on the bed now out of her view. "You want to be human so badly, don't you? Consider your wish granted!"

Morelle started struggling, real panic abruptly overtaking her when she realized what they were after. She just had to get loose, try and get away, but Ben's grip was like a vice. Each near escape made him clamp down harder, to the point she could barely breathe past the arm pinning her chest and stomach.

"Quit your squirming or I'll take the whole ear off!"

"Yes, Morelle, you've been so good this week. Don't misbehave now!"

Morelle stopped fidgiting, trembling while she gasped for breath. Gods, Maker, whoever the bloody he'll was out there, why were they letting this happen to her?

The bite of the blade was more painful than she felt it should have been, even under normal circumstances. Long after it had been cut the shorn end still burned. Markus tightly gripped it with a wad of cotton in his hand, to quickly close the wound before the blood dripped to her shoulders.

These bratchildren of a noble whore had cut the tip of her ear off, leaving it closer to the size and shape of a human's. Unless, of course, the top of a human's ear was as flat as if a knife had cut the excess off in a straight line.

"See? It looks better already." Emily gushed. That woman just needed to die! "Other side now!"

As Benjamin was turning her head, his hand slipped just enough that she could sink her teeth into the joint where his thumb met his hand. He grunted, trying to tug his hand out as she clamped down harder. If these creatures wanted her ears, they would have to pay the blood toll.

He was digging his fingers into her cheeks and jaw hard enough she felt he would crush her face while trying to dislodge her locked grip on his hand, but she persisted and bit down hard enough she was beginning to taste blood.

"She isn't letting go." His tugs were becoming more insistent as he squeezed her face harder. He didn't dare let go of her arms lest she go after his eyes.

"Just cut her mouth-"

"What are you doing?" Warden stood in the open doorway, his hand resting uneasily on the hilt of his sword as he took in the scene.

Benjamin immeadiately let Morelle go, while Markus hastily hid the knife and the piece of ear he'd carved off of her. The moment Ben let her go, Morelle lunged for the suddenly not-so-brave Emily. She may not have been able to claw Emily up as she wished, but by the Maker she still had two perfectly good hands with which to strangle the life out of her with!

Warden was able to just barely intercept her before she could reach the queen, wrapping his arms around her to keep her from lashing out with her fists. She did however manage to spit Ben's blood at her, much to the queen's horror as she and her brothers fled the room. Morelle fought to go after them, the surge of adrenaline overriding her rational mind. It took the Templar several minutes to calm her enough to release her, and another hour to be certain she wouldn't try to break past him and make a second run at the queen.

"Care to explain what that was?" He finally got her to sit after pacing the floor for several minutes, holding an ear while the other fist was clenched at her side. It wasn't until he saw her ear that he realized something far worse than baiting had taken place. "Morelle, tell me what happened."

She was so stuck in the mire of loathing that it took her a moment to hear him. When his voice finally managed to cut through to her, she realized he was using his Voice... Rather, the tone of voice when a Templar was taking control of a Mage.

She'd certainly heard it from Greagoir more than once.

"Morelle-"

"They were cutting my ears." The Mage murmured flatly, forcing her hand away from her ear and resting it on her knee. She picked restlessly at her nails and cuticles to keep her hand away from it, trying to prove more to herself than anyone that she wasn't as disturbed by it as she actually was.

Warden gently grabbed her hands to keep her from shredding her fingers. The Mage could feel his fingers brushing her scalp as he examined the cut ear. "Thank the Maker they didn't make off with much."

"They got enough."

"Cheer up, Morelle. You'll be away from here and that absolutely conniving woman in less than an hour." The Templar squeezed her shoulder, trying to draw her back from the brink. "If you wish, before we make the Tower you can magick your hair so it's longer."

Morelle sighed and leaned forward, casting a sidelong glance at the Templar. She'd been so incensed earlier that she hadn't noticed he wasn't wearing his helmet for the first time since she'd met him two weeks ago. His face was a good combination of broad versus angular. His cheek bones were high, but not overly so. He kept his dark brown hair neatly short. Actually, the most remarkable feature about him was his gray eyes.

"What's your name? None of the other guards have told me, and even when I ask for you I simply call you the Warden of this miniature prison."

"Cameron."

"Just Cameron?"

Cameron smiled, but it merely a fake grin. "I was a ward of the Chantry, left on the steps some cold winter morning. It was the Revered Mother who named me, but orphans have no surname until they're adopted by a family whom has one."

"You've never left the chantry?"

"No... And once I was old enough to begin my education as a Templar, it was decided that I never would."

"That seems unfair, shoving you into a life of pious servitude."

"Ah, but that is the future for those without destinies." Cameron gave a legitimate smile. "The Chantry gives opportunity to those without means. Would it have been better if they'd turned me out at fifteen, no talents or skills to speak of? I was given the highest purpose of serving our Maker and protecting His children."

"From the likes of Mages," Morelle added sourly.

Cameron gripped her shoulder to force her to turn. Without meaning to, Morelle looked up and met his eyes. Something about the steely gaze would not let her go.

"That isn't true. All you Mages claim and cry that the world is biased against you, that Templars are meant to torment rather than guard. We protect you from the common man just as we protect them from mages." He made a point of gently running his finger over the cut part of her ear. "If we were meant to be torturous, would I have intervened?"

"I suppose not." Morelle pushed his hand away, uncomfortable with the sudden closeness between them. She stood up from the bed and away from him, fingering her remaining whole ear. "While this heart to heart is not unwelcome, we'll have time to continue while you cart me off to the Tower. For now, I need you to do something for me."

"You know I cannot go after the Queen in your place."

"It is not your place to collect on my blood debt to begin with." Morelle shot back more irritated than she meant to. She sighed, forcing her shoulders and stance to relax. "I need you to cut my other ear as those animals cut the first."

"/What!/"

"My other ear. I want you to cut it."

"Why? Why would you want me anywhere near it after what those... those children did?"

"I have my reasons." She stared at him with hard eyes and a stone mask, hiding her true feelings of misery and self loathing. The Mage held out an expectant hand, taking her act further. "But if you refuse to do it, I will."

Cameron sat there for a minute, trying to stare her down. She was being silly and proud; they both knew it. When he realized she wouldn't back down, he stood up and pulled out a small dagger hidden in the belt of the kilt tied around his waist.

He approached slowly, almost hesitant. Morelle shut her eyes, trying her best to hide the flinch when she felt the blade on her ear. She kept reminding herself that this time was different, that this time it was /her/ decision.

That didn't ease any of the shame she felt.

It was much faster than before, though she suspected the trauma had something to do with that. It ended before she felt the blade's full bite, Cameron holding the minor wound closed until it stopped bleeding. Aside from a minor slant, they were about the same size once Cameron was finished.

"What do you want to do with this?"

"... Burn it. Now, let's go Home." She grabbed a small, cloth wrapped package and waited for the Templar by the sealed door.

xXx

"Absolutely not!"

Irving had known Greagoir would be livid at Morelle's return. He'd actually expected and anticipated it. What he hadn't truly thought about was how... /adamantly/ he would refuse to accept it. Granted, the girl had unleashed an untrackable bloodmage upon Ferelden and was totally unapologetic about it. And she /had/ snuck back into the tower once Greagoir had sealed it after he implicitly told her to mind her own affairs (even when it resulted in the successful rescue of many of the mages and Templars alike). There was also that incident when she'd helped that Anders fellow make his escape by setting off enchanted smoking paint bombs in the Templars' common area as a distraction...

Maker's breath, no wonder he didn't want to take her back. She had a record of bad behavior and judgement long enough that it occupied several storage vaults.

Irving suspected that that wasn't the Templar's only concern... Morelle had been away from Chantry supervision for a long while. Alistair had sworn that she never dabbled in blood, and Irving believed him, but he was concerned by what the guards had told him.

Shapeshifting. Supernatural strength. Uncontrollable rage.

Oh Morelle, what dark road have you followed?

"She cannot stay here Irving. There's enough to do without watching an unstable, unpredictable Mage." Greagoir reiterated, his brows knit together in a sour scowl. He'd aged badly since the Tower had nearly fallen, his gray hair becoming almost completely white. The wrinkles in his face were more defined, and his eyes were as hollow as he'd ever seen them. Yet in this, he saw a spark of fierceness try and revive his old commanding glare.

"She needs the support of the circle now more than ever to set her on the right path." Irving replied slowly. This was the best way to handle the Knight-Commander, especially since the Tower had gained a fair amount of independence from the Chantry. The Templars needed to feel as if they remained in control, and Irving would rather placate them then alienate them outright.

"She can have plenty of /support/ in the Aeonar." Greagoir's tone was as icy as he'd ever heard it.

"She saved the Circle once. Let us return the favor and save her."

Greagoir opened his mouth and shut it again, his Honor holding back his final judgement on the matter. Irving was right that they owed a debt to the Mage. She'd held on to her hope that those inside the tower could be saved when every one else had given up theirs and condemned innocent people to die. She'd risked her life and her sanity going into the Fade to rescue the enthralled Templars and had killed Uldred to save the mages soon after.

Even when all of Ferelden would no sooner spit on her not only for her blood but for the curse she was born with, she rose up and saved them all.

"She will stay under our conditions until I'm certain she is no longer a threat." Greagoir finally snapped, the words cold enough they could shatter at any moment. "She'll have the tenth floor room and it's adjoining studies, but she will be quarantined there until it is said otherwise. There will be a Templar posted at her door and accompanying her anywhere she goes."

"Do you have a Templar in mind?"

"Cullen, and Ramsey." Greagoir hadn't even taken a moment to think.

"You know how Cullen feels about mages. It's a wonder you don't transfer him elsewhere." Irving sighed, trying to talk Greagoir down. "Don't you think another Templar would be better suited? Gizelle maybe."

"Cullen is one of the few remaining from the Fall of the Tower. He knows the signs. Further, he hasn't fallen to hero worship of her since the end of the Blight. Not like the others have."

This man was more hard headed than a newly harrowed Mage! "Alright. Your security measures are not unfair. But I will not permit her to be cloistered away like some bloodmage in the Aeonar. Not forever."

Greagoir said nothing, merely turning on his boot heel and leaving Irving in his study. He needed to inform Cullen of the wayward apostate returning to the Tower, and what to do if she was beyond salvation.

xXx

It was slow going to Lake Calenhad's shores. Alistair had insisted they travel by carriage, even though Morelle would have been content with a set of horses and a tent.

She had narrowly avoided seeing the King before her departure, almost begging Cameron to get them away before Alistair awoke. Just after dawn, they were past the city gates with the imperial highway stretched out endlessly before them.

The journey took a little more than three weeks. Three weeks locked away in a carriage with a Templar for company. They spent much of the time playing Antivan dice games that she'd learned from Zevran, though by the end of the trip Morelle firmly believed than Cameron was a dirty cheater.

When they stopped for the night, Cameron would let her out for a little more than an hour to stretch her legs. She'd play with Rabbit, her mabari, for most of that before joining Cameron, Brok, and the driver at the fire.

... It brought back pleasant memories.

Before long, she'd be sealed within the carriage until just before dawn in the morning. This wasn't for her safety; it was simply a precautionary measure to ensure she didn't escape in the night by some miracle of the Maker. Not that she had anywhere to run, or could even run far in this white dress that stood out like a torch in the darkness.

The afternoon they arrived at the Spoiled Princess, Cameron rented her a private room, much to Brok's annoyance. They were going to cross Calenhad before dawn, so they would arrive while the apprentices were ushered into breakfast and not take notice of the... /celebrity/ about to take residence in their tower. Not that Morelle minded the delay; she was happy to put off her return as long as possible.

Darkness was falling all too soon, and she was locked alone in the rented room. Her dinner, long cold and forgotten, was sitting on the desk while Morelle sat in the corner against the wall on her bed. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, a book carefully balanced against her knees while she read the rest of the day away.

The Mage jumped when she heard someone knocking at her door. She glanced out of the window and realized full dark had long settled. She couldn't remember putting a candle out but there it was on the desk, burning down to a stub. How long had she been reading?

"Yes?"

Cameron pushed open the door, closing it behind him and pulling up a chair next to her bed. "So you heard me this time."

"This time?" Morelle closed the book, her forehead furrowed with concentration. She didn't remember him coming in at all that afternoon, only when he'd given her her dinner and locked her in.

"You were trying to read by the failing light of dusk. You were quite intent on completing that passage so I set a candle out for you. Have you been reading this whole time? It's nearly time for us to leave." He had a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, the light behind eyes trying not to dance with the laughter he was having difficulty supressing.

"What if I was?" She groused, slamming the book shut with a quick snap. The Mage started systematically stretching, shaking the weariness from her bones.

"What /are/ you reading? As I recall it was the only thing you took from Denerim, except for your clothes." Morelle's eyes flicked up to the Templar's, unconsciously tucking the book closer to her chest as if she was trying to hide it. Though looking so defensive about it had probably been a bad idea. Cameron held his hand out expectantly, less amiable and more business like. "You can tell me now, or you can tell me and the rest of the Templars in the tower alittle more than an hour from now."

With a heavy sigh, Morelle turned the book over to him. She looked remarkably uncomfortable, waiting for his judgement.

"Its archaic Tevinter," Cameron murmured, running his fingers over the words as if that would instantly translate the text.

"Yes. Are you fluent?"

"Enough to know the difference between writings, spells, and rituals. This is a study, isn't it?" Cameron paged through the book, scanning the paragraphs and examining the digrams with careful scrutiny.

"It was supposedly written before the first Blight by a later deposed Magister Lord, Verrile Thalassoren. He hypothesized that blood magic wasn't the only way to amplify a Mage's innate abilities. In that book he discusses sigil and seal magics, using a marked circle or symbol to focus the energies much like a magnifying glass focuses light." She reached over the top of the book and pointed to a symbol Cameron had stopped on. "That is the base of one of the most potent paralysis sigils known today, and he is credited with it's creation. You could say that Verrile is the father of such magic, because many of his seals are still in use today."

"As benign as it seems, you know I can't let you take this into the Tower. Morelle," the Mage was clutching at the top of the cover, trying to pull it from his hands, but Cameron gently pryed it out of her grip before taking it completely out of her hands. "You know that anything of Tevinter origins, especially spellcraft, is banned."

"I know, I know." She made a half hearted lunge for the book, losing her grip on the edge of the bed and nearly falling face-first to the floor if Cameron hadn't caught her and pushed her back. "Please, Cameron, just give it back and pretend you never saw it!"

In that moment when she thought the kind, thoughtful Templar might not give in, she fought harder. She made another attempt to grab the book with more enthusiasm than before. Cameron dropped the book in their struggle, grabbing her wrists and eventually pinning them to her sides. Even with his fingers digging in painfully, she kept trying to wrench free and grab the book.

"Why is it so important!" Cameron said louder than he meant to. It was a few octaves short of a shout, and he felt badly for it almost immeadiately when Morelle started to shake, unable to meet his eyes.

"Because it... it just is." Cameron tightened his grip just a touch, pulling her back just before she could withdraw her mind into herself and out of his reach.

"Morelle, you can tell me."

"Alistair gave it to me, alright!" Morelle exploded, suddenly pushing him away from her. Cameron staggered backwards, nearly losing his balance if she hadn't grabbed for his arms. Despite her aid she still looked furious, but it was hard to tell where the rage was directed.

Her eyes suddenly widened once she caught her bearings again, and she dropped Cameron's forearms as if she'd been burned. She collapsed back on the bed, hunched over so he couldn't see her face.

Cameron was certain she was crying.

He wanted to say something, to calm her and reassure her feelings, but she was far from his influence now. He picked up the book he'd flung to keep it out of her reach before squeezing her shoulder as he passed.

"I... I'm sorry, Cameron."

"Its alright. You'll be home soon."

xXx

Most Mages only cross the lake three or four times in their lifetimes. The ranked Enchanters, often many more times than that. Morelle couldn't help but wonder if this would be her final boat ride.

Then again, she'd thought that when she'd been expelled from the circle and again after securing the Circle's support for the war... And again when presenting Dagna's request to Irving.

Maker's breath, nevermind. With her luck she'd make a dozen more trips of no consequence. Or perhaps Emily would somehow get her sent to the Aeonar anyway. Even after nearly a month away from Denerim, all she could think of was that infernal woman and her demonic siblings. She wondered if Alistair truly loved her, or if he knew it was only for politics. Probably not, because Alistair was too innocent for such cloak and dagger affairs. Innocence she'd fought to preserve.

No, it was Eamon pulling the strings. She'd been a fool to blindly follow that man. It was truly him ruling, as Alistair had no mind for politics. As a matter of fact, he had been the one to put Emily forward as a suitable queen and encouraged their courtship.

Morelle bitterly wondered what sorts of favors a poor noble family had to do for the aging man to try and secure power. She hoped most of them were paid by a disgusted Emily on her back; she seemed the type of woman to pay with flesh rather than more acceptable methods.

She shook herself. No, she would not think of that demon any longer. Denerim was far behind her, Alistair and his foul wife well beyond her reach. Morelle would simply have to come back to terms with living within the circle yet again.

The Tower was a dark spear against the rising dawn, piercing the sky while new sunlight seemed to bleed around the imaginary wound.

Maker preserve her.


End file.
